


Color Me Gentle

by Lyswenn



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: 2nd Person, AU where Max actually tries to understand Victoria, Angst, Comfort, F/F, Insecurities, Maxs POV, One-Shot, Rewind powers, a bit of fluff too, blackmailing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 02:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4943218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyswenn/pseuds/Lyswenn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In this moment, her world revolves around you, the same way yours revolve around her. You don’t know what thoughts are crossing her mind, in this moment, but you just know they are about you. And that knowledge alone sets a fire inside your chest."<br/>As Max sneaks out at night, she finds Victoria flirting with Mr. Jefferson. She manages to turn it to her advantage.<br/>Chasefield/Maximum Victory one-shot. Second perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Color Me Gentle

You just wanted to take a walk – breath in the cold night’s air, let it fill your mind and replace your worries. You rarely ever leave your room at night, so you figured you could try and take photographs of the nocturnal life, for once. It would be a nice change.

But what you found instead was far – far – beyond your expectation.

Victoria Chase is standing on top of the stairs, near the main school building, with none other than Mr. Jefferson himself. And from the looks of it, the conversation isn't going her way.

You silently step closer to the pair, while a part of you tells you not to - it's dangerous, and nosy, definitely - but the curiosity gets the best of you. You finally manage to get within earshot, and what a reat.

"Listen, you've seen my entry. You know it's better than that." That is Victoria's voice. "Wouldn't that be so cool to hang out together in San Francisco, Mark?"

The contest. You had almost forgotten about the contest... You guess that this information just fell at the back of your head, what with the realization that you have superhuman time travelling powers.

"Stick to Mr. Jefferson, Victoria. Please?" Burn! "And, uh, I haven't picked a winner yet."

"You already love my work, so it's not like you're playing favorites. Just imagine if you picked my photo though... we would have to spend a lot of time together. That could be... fun, don't you think?"

Ugh. You roll your eyes at how painfully embarrassing this is to hear. You try to ignore how Victoria's voice wavered. You would never expect the Queen Bee to be anything but confident, no matter how ridiculous her flirting attempts could be. But her defeated voice repeats in your head like a broken record, and you feel the slightest amount of guilt for internally making fun of her.

"I'm going to think that you didn't say any of that."

"You might as well choose me", she sounds a lot more aggressive now, "otherwise I might have to tell people you offered to choose my photo for favors or something..." What a bitch.

"As a favor to your future, I'll also ignore that undisguised threat. This conversation is officially over, Miss Chase, I suggest you go back to your dorm now."

"Wait- I only-"

You see your teacher walk away, leaving behind a frustrated Victoria.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

She begins taking her leave as well, her gaze fixated on the ground as her head hangs low. You feel a sting of pain in your chest as she mutters a “that’s so stupid”.

She sounds so… defeated. So unlike anything you’ve heard of her.

You shake your head. It isn’t the first time you get to witness her vulnerability. You remember your conversation just a few days ago, the look of desperation and remorse on her facial features, the crack in her voice. That usually stoic mask of hers had shattered apart, revealing her fragility, entirely exposed for your eyes to see.

Your heart misses another beat, and against your better judgement, your desire to decipher this beautiful enigma grows stronger than your sense of self-preservation. Your blood boils in excitement, screams at you to take action – it’s senseless, and you know it, but it’s an impulse you can’t seem to resist, an urge, the result of curiosity gnawing at your brain too feverishly.

So in your frenzy, you take a step towards her, your mind too dazed to fully process what you’re doing.

“Who’s there?”

She turns to you abruptly, and then it dawns on you.

“Max Caulfield.” She breathes out, shaking her head in disapproval. “Fucking grand.”

She is staring at you, an exaggerated frown painted on her face, silently gushing her disgust at you.

You suddenly remember that – oh – right – she hates your guts. She has targeted you since the moment she had laid eyes on you, and she seems more than willing to use her frustration against you.

What the heck got into you?

“You saw it all, didn’t you?”

Her tone is accusative, and your shoulders become heavy with culpability. Well, _technically_ , you haven’t _seen_ anything, just _heard_ , which is not necessarily as bad, is it? It probably is, and she certainly sees the guilt on your face.

“So what?” she throws defensively before you can even think of a proper answer. “Go right fucking ahead and judge me. I don’t have to justify my actions to you. You wouldn’t even _begin_ to understand.”

“I am not judging you, Victoria”, you breathe out.

She scoffs. “Yes, sure, of course.” She rolls her eyes, as if the exaggerated sarcasm isn’t enough already. “You’re just simply going back to your room, like the innocent, kind-hearted person that you are, and out of pure generosity you will actually forget everything that you just saw. You’ll dream of glitters and vintage filters, convinced that you did a good action, because you’re just _that_ nice, aren’t you?”

You would think "wow, she's on fire" if her voice hadn't begun to break. She cringes at it, and you can see her lips press against each other as her teeth sink into the flesh. Her eyes are devoid of the hatred her mouth tried so hard to spurt, and all you can notice is just how _scared_ she looks.

You just shrug. She can empty her bag on you for all you care – it’s not like it has ever affected you. Her resentment has never made any sense, and her mockery has never sound as hollow as it does now. So you just let the jibes fly over your head, as you always do.

But it just seems to infuriate her more.

“Don’t you fucking dare ignore me now!”

“Victoria, I am not going to tell anyone, if that’s what you were subtly asking.” You sigh. “What do you even want from me?”

She grits her teeth, but you don’t understand. She looks so hurt, as if you had deliberately tried to offend her – but as far as you know, you haven’t. You’re fairly certain that nothing in your behavior has ever indicated that you would spread the word – because, truthfully, you have no intent to – but she dived straight into that conclusion, as if you couldn’t possibly be anything but _against_ her-

Oh. 

So that’s it. She thinks you’re against her. It makes sense, actually. You just caught her in a humiliating situation, which you could definitely use to your advantage. Unbeknownst to you, you are in a position of force. You are a threat to her reputation.

You have never seen it from this angle, and it only fills you with desolation. Because _she_ definitely sees it this way. She automatically, perhaps even instinctively perceived you as her enemy, and somehow, you’re convinced that it isn’t even personal.

There is no way she would believe you, the look in her eyes is enough to tell you. The fear you see lodging behind the brown is more than enough to know that she would mistrust anyone.

So you raise your right hand.

You briefly see her lift a curious eyebrow, right before it quickly disappears into her fearful scowl.

The world shifts around you, away from you. You feel the distance between you and the universe as you drift away from it, witness its course in reverse, standing from a position no one else could ever behold.

You calmly begin to count in your head – one, two… – it is a habit you have unconsciously developed, it seems.

Three, four… It is the only way you wouldn’t feel lost in this distortion of time where no one and nothing belongs. Counting provides you a sense of stability when your insides are torn by the time flowing through and against you.

You reach twenty-six when your temples begin to ache and you judge that it might be enough. You lower your hand, and you feel yourself getting sucked back into what is now a new present. You are still standing in front of Victoria, her eyes wide open at the sight of you.

“Max Caulfield. Fucking grand.”

“Well, hello there, Victoria”, you reply, this time, letting an ounce of cheekiness slip into your voice.

She squints at you. “I’m stopping you right here, hipster. If you speak a word of whatever you just saw, I’ll fucking end your life.”

You try, very hard, not to smile – but you fail, and you inevitably crack a grin. Your plan proved to be more successful, as you effectively gave Victoria a reason to _actually_ be cautious of you.

“I’m surprised, Victoria. Are you really in any position to threaten me?”

You clearly see her taken aback by your sudden burst of assurance. Perfect.

“I mean”, you continue, “this was quite a show up there.”

“No one would believe anything you say.”

“Do you want to take the risk?” You take a step forward. “Everyone knows how hard you try to into Jefferson’s good side, and pants. Everyone is so embarrassed for you. I don’t know about you, but I have no doubt that our class would definitely believe my words. And I don’t think you would want them to know just how bad you are at flirting.”

You want to take your words back the moment you spurted them out. You hate having to put up that attitude. Granted, having the upper hand when speaking to the Queen Bee feels quite fulfilling, and you feel your confidence increase considerably just from your quick outburst.

But you can’t ignore the guilt creeping in your guts when you see the absolute look of terror on her face.

You briefly catch a glimpse of the muscles in her jaw tensing, before she swallows painfully, eyes still boring into yours.

“What do you want?” she asks.

Her voice is devoid from any menace, it is simply demanding, expecting anything and everything.

You’re almost startled at how quick it was – you never actually expected her to give in so easily, you thought she would show more resistance, more pride. You never thought that her reputation would mean _this_ much to her.

So you ponder, as you haven’t actually given it any thought yet. You are technically blackmailing the richest, most popular girl in this whole town – as much as you hate to do this. You could ask for anything.

“Paint my nails.”

She stares at you in shock.

She takes a step back as if she suddenly came to the realization that you are unquestionably insane – and the thought might have actually crossed her mind.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Paint my nails”, you repeat, calmly.

“You- I- Are…” She pauses to breathe. “Did you seriously just ask me to paint your nails? Have I heard you right?”

“Yes, you have.”

She squints at you suspiciously. You almost laugh to yourself as you realize it is harder to convince her to paint your nails than to blackmail her in the first place.

“I paint your nails, and you shut your mouth, is that it?” She doesn’t seem to buy it.

You only nod this time, slightly tired of having to confirm every single one of her interrogation. She scoffs, but the amount of disdain seems equal to the amount of relief, even though her stare screams disbelief.

“Do we have to deal?” You inquire.

“Alright.”

You resist the urge to raise your fist in victory, your brain simply throwing a celebration party on its own.

“I’d appreciate if we could get this over with, like right now.” She adds. “But then again, you’re the dickhead coercing me into this, so I guess that’s your call.”

“Now is fine.”

You pour all the kindness in your voice, the sweetness in it almost makes you sick. But you still feel terrible, and you see no other way to ask for forgiveness than to compensate for the wrong you caused. An apology lingers on your tongue as you begin to head back to the dormitories – an extra pair of footsteps alongside yours – but it never slips past your lips.

When you finally arrive at the end of the corridor, she opens the door to her room, hurriedly pulling you inside.

It is strange, actually being _allowed_ inside her room. It feels as if it doesn’t even look the same as you remember, despite sneaking into it less than a day ago.

She gestures at you to sit on the couch and you obey without a word. She walks to her wardrobe, opening a drawer to finally come back with a box that she displays on the coffee table in front of you, open for your eyes to look into.

But you look at her instead.

“What?” she snarls, after taking her seat next to you.

“I just... I’m just surprised that we’re actually using _your_ nail polish.”

She startles at your remark, but she quickly adverts her gaze, fixating the plethora of colors in front of you.

“As if I’d ever touch your shitty ones. Be grateful that you get to experience what a _real_ nail polish feels like.”

You almost want to roll your eyes. Her obsession with wealth – and her need to show it off – is usually ridiculous, even irritating at times, but you can’t help but find it cute in this moment. You can actually feel her discomfort, and you guess that she needs to focus on what she knows in order to keep her composure.

She pushes the box closer to you, bringing your attention back to it.

“So, which?”

You glance at the colors – admittedly, you imagined that she would own a larger collection. But you quickly shrug at the thought. You don’t know much about all that girly-make-up deal, and all the colors you see look nice to you, so you figure that she must have good tastes.

“You’re the expert here. I shall trust your judgement.”

Your excessive kindness, easily mistaken as sarcasm, causes her to scowl, but you know that she appreciates the flattery as she hums a little. She scrutinizes her nail polishes, picking out a few that she brings closer to your skin, although not touching you. After a few minutes, she finally straightens her back before setting all the flasks down, only opening one.

Peach. A very light color, somewhere in between orange and pink. Why not?

She extends her hand, and you swallow a breath before reaching out, your fingers softly resting on hers. It feels strange, foreign. It is a sensation you aren’t accustomed to, and you come to the realization that you have never physically touched before. You take in the sensation – her skin feels cold, certainly because of the time you have spent outside, and you briefly wonder if yours feels warm. If she likes it.

You snap out of your thoughts as she manipulates your hand, rotating it slightly, in an unusually delicate manner. She brings the small brush to the nail on your thumb, caressing it slowly, with remarkable precision. The nail polish feels cold, and a shiver runs through your arm, pearls down your back, and you hope she doesn’t notice – but she is far too concentrated on the task at hand. You would laugh at your own pun if you weren’t so mesmerized by her face.

Her eyebrows are slightly furrowed, but it isn’t her usual scowl, she doesn’t seem upset in the slightest, and it is a surprising sight.

She looks so… beautiful.

You’ve never had any issue admitting it, to yourself or to anyone, really – Victoria Chase is gorgeous, aesthetically flawless on every possible level, the absolute perfect model for photography. But you have never been so aware of it than in this precise moment.

Her eyes are solemnly focused on the tip of your fingers, trying hard to achieve perfection, and your heart skips a beat at the notion. You can’t help but scrutinize every inch of her oh so pretty face – from so close, you are able to notice a hint of green in her otherwise brown eyes. Her eyelashes are covered by a thin layer of mascara, and you actually lose yourself in the way they flutter open, so slowly, so elegantly. You forget how to breathe for a moment, your entire being enthralled by the wonder that is Victoria Chase.

A wonder. That is exactly what you think she is.

Because you don’t understand Victoria. You never have. She has everything you would never even dream of having – stunning beauty, wealth, intellect, sharpness, talent… heck, she could even be hilarious at times.

And yet, this seemingly perfect individual turned out to be a heartless bitch. It felt as if God had created the most magnificent painting – the superlative of the epitome of perfection, _at least_ – and then spilled coffee on it.

That is what you thought, until now.

Now, she is close, just _so close_ , you can actually hear her inhale, and exhale, steadily, unlike the beating of your heart. As your memory functions fully absorb the perfection of her visage – and she has certainly noticed your stare at this point – you grow aware that, in this moment, you are the center of her attention. In this moment, her world revolves around you, the same way yours revolve around her. You don’t know what thoughts are crossing her mind, in this moment, but you just _know_ they are about you. And that knowledge alone sets a fire inside your chest.

You release a short sigh – damn, you forgot how to breathe properly again.

She looks up at you, pausing in her work. You see her lips spread apart – you’re deeply convinced that something is melting within you – but no sound passes through. Damn it. The silence was so serene, but of course you had to go and turn it awkward.

“I- err- I like the color”, you sputter. Nice job, Max. Really smooth.

She glances back at your nails before continuing where she had left off.

“It suits your skin tone”, she whispers, and you know she is forcing the words out. “And it’s discrete. I figured you wouldn’t like something too flashy.”

“T-Thanks.”

Oh gosh, is she blushing now? Yes. She is definitely blushing. And your heart is trying to break through your ribcage.

“Are you going to tell me what the heck this is about?” she suddenly asks, her voice a bit louder now.

“What do you mean?”

“This whole… blackmailing thing.” She sighs. “Anyone would have asked for money, or fame, or… other things.”

You swallow unpleasantly, anxiously. You see exactly what she means, what she is referring to, you are not _that_ naïve... and you can’t help but wonder if she’d comply, if she'd do _that_ just to silence someone and save her reputation. The thought makes your insides churn, and remaining calm takes too much of your will for you to even think of anything to reply.

“I can’t figure out if there is a point to this, or if you really are just a moron.”

“I just… wanted you to paint my nails.” Your voice sounds way too dry.

“Do you have some weird domination fetish involving hands and makeup or what?”

You let a laugh escape at that remark, but her frown forces you to stop. The nail polish. Right. Keep cool and steady. You feel a bit lighter, and you wonder if her joke was actually aiming for that effect.

“I don’t”, you reply seriously. “To be honest… I didn’t want to blackmail you to begin with.”

“Why did you?” She raises an eyebrow, despite still focusing on your nails.

“Because if I didn’t, you wouldn’t believe that I’d keep my mouth shut.”

“I’m still not sure you will.”

“I will.”

She drops your hand, and for a second you believe you have said something wrong. But then you glance down, and you see your five digits fully painted. You have to admit, it looks really pretty. You want to compliment it – her -  but she is already trying to reach for your other hand, so you simply comply, feeling a bit more comfortable with the touch.

So you raise your right hand. But not to rewind time.

The caress feels different, as you become excruciatingly aware of the power you’re holding in your hand, the hand she is holding.

You realize that you have never been so intimate with anyone before.

Which, for a second, feels insane – she is just painting your nails! It’s nothing too serious, is it? Friends do that, sometimes, don’t they? But you know it has nothing to with friendship.

Actually, you don’t think any word would accurately describe this moment. You can’t possibly understand the feelings swarming inside you, filling every fiber of your being, annihilating any trace of lucidity in you.

You know that she is unconscious of the gift you were inexplicably granted – but, for a moment, it feels as if you could tell her. As if you could tell her and she would actually believe you. Or at least consider your words, contemplate it, regardless of how crazy it would sound.

It feels like that sort of bond.

But as your eyes dart to her lips, you realize that you really can’t care less about the absurdity of your power right now. Right now is your chance at solving the mystery, grasping the wonder. And you take it.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why… why would you flirt with Jefferson?”

She freezes, and so do you, unconsciously.

A frown taints her face, and you almost think she is on the verge of crying, but she finally releases a long, heavy, defeated sigh.

She continues to paint your nail.

“I…”

You stop breathing.

“I just… want to win this… dumb contest.”

She speaks barely above a whisper, her voice cracking, probably under the shame of her statement. She doesn’t glance at you, not even once.

“But you don't have to do that, all the flirting and threatening...”

“What choice do I have?” she releases a laugh that doesn’t have any trace of joy in it.

“Simply enter a photo and wait?” you reply calmly, cautious of the verbal landmines you shouldn’t step on.

She forces another laugh out, just as sarcastic, but this time you can clearly hear the despair shivering underneath.

“I can’t win.”

“Of course you can!”

She shakes her head. “I’m not… good enough.”

The tone of her voice weights on you, depressing your optimism to the ground. You remember the letter you found earlier in her room, clearly rejecting her work, or the name she shares with a notorious art gallery, and you can almost see the pressure building on her shoulders. You want to argue, enunciate all the reasons why she _is_ good enough and even more so, but you’re not certain that language even has the power to tear apart the image she has carved of herself.

And it’s breaking your heart.

You clench your hand on hers, clasping it gently, yet firmly, disregarding the peach color that has inevitably slid alongside your finger, using your other hand to set the nail polish aside.

“What th-“

You squeeze again, briefly, and she finally looks up.

You meet her eyes, your heart racing out of the blue as you search for words, actions, anything that could convey your feelings to her, in a way she would understand and believe.

It hurts, it hurts because you _know_ she would rather believe in your powers than believe in her own potential.

“I don’t need your pity, Caulfield.” But her taunt lacks its usual bite.

“Is that really so?”

She adverts her gaze but you lower your head, looking up at her to meet her eyes again.

“Stop it.”

“Victoria-“

“Stop it!”

She rips her hand away from your grip to cover her mouth, and for a brief instant, you can catch a glimpse of the torment in her eyes before she turns away completely, tearing her sorrow away from you.

You’re sitting here, so close to her, you listen to her trying to choke down her sobs, and you’re well-aware that even time-travelling won’t stop you from feeling powerless. You could lift your peach-tainted hand to rewind until your skull throbs and your nose bleeds, until the Victoria facing you delicately paints your nail with blissful ignorance, but you know that the pain will remain. Concealed behind walls, in a world that isn’t your own. And rewinding time will never grant you access there, as it is a place only her can behold.

So you close your eyes and you begin to count her erratic panting, echoing in the room. You don’t have the luxury to decide when they will go back to the soothing breaths you liked so much. You just wait, your head resting against the back of the couch, letting time flow through you.

You reach fifty-two when you hear her shift in her seat, so you open your eyes and are greeted with the sight of her back, and you can see her rolling her head slowly, her neck cracking. You straighten your posture, getting slowly closer to her. She turns her head – not completely, you can only see the side of her face, but you still feel relief wash over you.

You see her lips move, but she can’t find the words. Neither can you.

So she rotates her body completely, facing you again. Her eyes are on your hand and she grabs it slowly, simultaneously reaching for the nail polish to continue from where you had interrupted her. You want to tell her she doesn’t have to, that it was only a stupid request only so that you could get closer to her, but you let her. The room is filled with her occasional sniffing, she is shaking a little, her work nearly not as precise as it was, but you don’t mind. She is calmer now and it’s all that matters to you.

You stare at her again. Her eyes are as red as her cheeks, dried tears sticking to her face. She takes long inhalations through her mouth, quivering every now and then.

And you realize that the person in front of you is beautiful.

Not in an aesthetical way that makes you want to take a picture and pin it to the wall adjacent to your bed – but in a precious, fragile and delicate way. You want to carefully knock at her inner walls, until she willingly lets you in, allows you to brush away the pain, to carry that burden with her. You want to melt your world into hers, hers into yours, bring them together, create a place where both of you can stand.

“I don’t understand you.”

You smile a little at her remark.

“I wish you did.”

She looks up at you curiously, and that warm feeling settles back in your chest.

“I wish you could see yourself the way that I see you.”

Her eyes widen at your declaration, and a different kind of crimson colors her cheeks. You can see her throat clench as she swallows with difficulty, and she maintains your gaze for a few more seconds before darting back to your hand.She sets the peach flask aside, grabbing the nail polish remover instead. She presses its content against a cotton, before running it along your finger, carefully, erasing the color that has smeared earlier.

She reluctantly releases your hand and you bring your fingers closer to your face, examining them closely. You don’t care that three digits are not as perfect as the seven others. It has no importance.

“It looks amazing.”

She blinks slowly and you take it as a silent thanks.

“Please don't talk about this..." she whispers, and it almost sounds like a plea.

"I won't. I really won't."

"Thank you..."

She shifts uncomfortably, and you can feel how uneasy she is. You try to look for words, but she beats you to it.

"Maybe you should leave now."

You gasp, bringing a beautifully manicured hand to your chest dramatically.

“No insults to throw me out? I am disappointed.”

She rolls her eyes, cracking a slight smile nonetheless.

“Get your hipster ass outta here.”

That is more like it.

You reciprocate her grin before standing up and finally making your way towards the door.

But you feel her pulling at your sleeve, and something slides into your hand. You look at your palm and see the peach nail polish in the middle of it.

You turn around, confusion written all over your face.

“Keep it.”

You want to protest-

“It… looks beautiful on you.”

-but your heart swallows your words and turns your thoughts into mush. You smile from ear to ear against your better judgement, causing her cheeks to redden profusely.

“Now get out!”

You dumbly nod, still grinning like an idiot, before finally stepping out of her room and into the corridor.

You close her door and rest your back on it, clenching at the fabric covering your chest, willing your heart to calm down – but it’s in vain, as you can still vividly remember how flustered Victoria had looked, her pretty brown eyes struggling to maintain your gaze, face burning with embarrassment.

Beautiful. She called _you_ beautiful.

You make sure to permanently carve the memory in your mind before walking to your own room.

Maybe your worlds have already melted together, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this is, it was supposed to be fluff but it turned into angst?  
> It has been proofread now. c:  
> [EDIT 16/10/15: I've slightly changed how Victoria asks Max to keep quiet about her breaking down, because I was very insatisfied with it. I tried to make it a bit more fluid and natural, I guess.]


End file.
